


Off by Heart

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Drug Dealing, F/M, M/M, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day you drop out of high school, you hollow out your English textbook and fill the void with dime bags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**OFF BY HEART**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean; Dean/OMC; Dean/OFC  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; drug dealing; drug use; prostitution; abuse

  
The day you drop out of high school, you hollow out your English textbook and fill the void with dime bags. From the hours of two to four, you enable habits for cash until Sam gets let out, running to you with his cluttered backpack swinging full of ACDC folders and Metallica pencil cases. He tells you about his teachers and he tells you about his friends, shows you the car keys he brought in for show and tell, your father's beer can tabs still clanging against each other, the feathers that you found in a rest stop at the Grand Canyon fluttering with the wind.

Your father knows but doesn't want to know, the key to his padlocked liquor cabinet hanging off the same chain as his dog tags, the overturned pictures of your mother left to collect dust on the hall table, on the windowsills next to the dying Hydrangeas. He drinks and fixes motorcycles and classic cars for a worn-down biker shop, wearing oil like a second skin, smudged around the creases of his knuckles, leaving kisses on his cheekbones. He stands out, without a leather jacket or bandana. And when the boys slide little baggies full of coke or heroin into his hand instead of cash, your father smiles and doesn't complain.

You slip money into envelopes to pay the rent, you leave stacks of cash with Sam's principal, even when he frowns and tells you that there are still some nice public schools out there, you know. Public education is still good education. Thanks, but no thanks, you say. Sam shouldn't leave his friends like that. Sam should get everything that he needs. Sam should get what you couldn't.

The boys who buy from you are the same prep school bullies who would tease you about sucking cock. They lick their lips and don't look you in the eye, sliding their palms warm and soft in yours, exchanging money for plastic. They nod and open their mouths to say something, but change their minds, let their skin touch yours a bit too long, leave without a second thought.

The girls wear low cut shirts and put on shows for a deal. Sometimes you bite, but mostly you don't. You'd never want it getting around that any slut within a five mile radius can get bud for free, no matter how hot they are.

Some of your regulars are parents and teachers, one's even a lawyer who has a wife and three kids and pays you extra if you let him touch you sometimes, his fingers smooth on your arms, on the space just underneath the waistband of your jeans. He won't kiss you on the mouth, but he'll jerk you off, moaning dirty words against the side of your jaw, tightlipped and rough. It's enough money to pay the electricity bill for three months, so you don't mind it that much, even when he leaves marks on your throat, lips and teeth and his strong-armed grip, thumbs pressing hard on your collarbone. Even when he forgets your name and calls you someone else, his eyes shut tight, nose to your ear.

The more skin he destroys, the more rent you make.

***

You buy from an ex-boyfriend who can't keep his hands off you. He's muscled and tan and tells you about his girlfriend from three states over, the one who lets him take pictures of her naked. He keeps the Polaroids folded over and over in his wallet and brings them out to show you whenever you come over, won' t let you leave until you've at least cooed over her twice, her blank-stared gaze as she walks two fingers down past her panties.

He tries to kiss you three times, but you turn your head away. He only called out girl names when he fucked you, that's why you broke it off. Susan, when he thrummed his fingers on the inside of your thighs. Margaret, when he kissed the back of your neck. Ashley, when he bared his teeth, licked the back of your hands, when he smiled against your mouth.

He's the only one in your town that will give you a discount rate for putting up with his wandering hands, so you see him once a month and buy bulk, turning around and selling it for twice the price.

The kids don't know, they just want to get high.

***

At school, the only class you could pass was gym. Natural athlete, your gym teacher told you. He'd slip try-out posters in your locker after you had finished changing. Football, soccer, lacrosse, each poster proclaimed victory in block letters with the school colors. You never went to them, even when Sammy's teachers could promise to babysit him for the length of a practice, even when your father could promise to sit in the stands without a drink in his hand. You never wanted to be part of a team, you never wanted to try.

You'd be great, your gym teacher always told you. You'd win every game.

You're good at selling. And that's all you need to know.

***

When you were twelve, your father taught you how to hold a shotgun. You liked the weight of it in your hands, you liked the kick and reverberation when you squeezed the trigger, strong but slow. You could shoot cans with your eyes closed, the sound of the bullet striking the metal sharp in your ears, the sound like an explosion from the gun. You could shoot anything, whipping the leaves off trees, knocking down the line of plastic Coke bottles and rubber banded baseball cards sitting on the backyard fence.

When you hold your gun now, the handgun you use just for show, just so those prep school bullies won't get any ideas, you stroke her soft like a kiss. You clean her and you wrap her tight inside the shoebox in your closet, bury her all the way at the top where Sam will never find her. Bury her safe.

You like her sleek shine, you like the way she feels cold against your skin.

Besides your mother, she's the only woman you've ever loved.

***

You drive Sam to school in the mornings with one of your father's pet projects, a 1967 Chevy Impala, cherried out interior, sharp shiny metal under the hood. Your father has burn marks from this car. Your father has cuts that have scabbed over and will never heal, but the engine purrs fine when you lay your hands on the steering wheel, purrs loud when you turn the volume of the radio up, like she's competing just to be heard.

Sam likes to sing with you, rolling down the window and sticking his hand out to ride the waves of air. He likes it when you drive fast, swerving dangerously down the winding roads towards school. He likes it when you rev the engine at stop lights and race through intersections.

You pull up to his school and he gets out, bouncing over to the driver's side to say goodbye. "Pound it for good luck," you say, holding out your fist.

He smiles and touches his knuckles to yours.

After Sam, you cruise around looking for buyers. You never have to go far, they always seem to find you. They slide skin against yours and you pull baggies out of your hoodie pocket, replace it with bills. They smile or look nervous or even afraid, eyes darting around for cops, for parents.

The new ones don't know what they're getting themselves into, but they know what they want, they know what they can't say no to. They're a friend of a friend of a friend or they've heard your name around the block, but you don't care how they got there, you don't care who they know, who knows you, you just care about the business. You just care about the money.

You're just rounding down Main Street when a boy not much older than you waves. You pull to a stop at the curb and he sticks his head through the passenger side window, resting his arm on the car. "Hey," he says.

"What's up?" you raise an eyebrow.

"You're Dean, right?" He has freckles on his arm where it lays on the window. He has bright blue eyes.

"Hop in," you say. This is could take all day if you let it.

The boy's from Washington, D.C., he says, taking a ready made spliff from you and lighting the end of it with his cigarette lighter. The new ones always wanna try before they buy. He just moved here because his father lost his job in computers. They had to make a new start somewhere and the brochure looked nice. He lost his best friend in the move, but, most importantly, he lost his dealer.

"You can't get weed over Facebook," he says, taking a long puff and waiting one two three before exhaling.

He's glass-eyed when you drop him off at his house five blocks and three red lights later, but he skates a hand over the back of your neck with precision, thumbing the soft hairs there. "Wanna come inside for a bit?" He says, licking his lips an inch from your cheek. "My parents are at work."

Why not? You shrug your shoulders and follow him into his house. There are boxes still on the floor, but most of the furniture has been arranged in quaint family style alignment. The boy's room is blue with plastic spaceships and glow in the dark stars stuccoed to the ceiling. "Haven't had time to paint over it," he says.

"I like it," you say, and unzip your hoodie, laying it over his desk chair.

The boy thinks if he gives you a blowjob, you'll give him weed for free. You wanna see how slick and smooth his mouth is before you can commit.

"My name's Castiel, by the way," he says.

You raise an eyebrow, hand in his hair as he gets to his knees, as he pulls at the tab of your zipper with his thumb and forefinger.

"I was born on a Thursday," he explains.

You open your mouth, but close it again when you have to bite down on a moan, Castiel's lips on your skin.

***

What you remember about your mother can fit inside the palm of your hand, a soft warm brush of lips across your cheekbone, a sweeping lock of blonde hair that curls around your face. Her hands, bigger than yours. The way you fit perfectly on her hip, knees tucked tight on either side of her.

This is what you dream about at night, when Sam crawls into your bed after a nightmare, when you can barely hear the sound of your father shuffling from the living room to the kitchen, hands on the fridge door, barefoot and drunk. This is what you remember when there's nothing but the feeling of someone else's skin on yours, even after you've showered three maybe four times. This is what you can't forget when you've forgotten what your life used to be like, soft and small and able to fit neatly into plans and goals.

This is what you'll take with you when you leave. When Sam's old enough, when your father's gone far enough, when you're done playing nurse maid and father and perpetual scapegoat. When you're done.

***

You don't take drugs. You drink and you fuck for money, but you've never done any of the weed you sell. Nobody questions you on this, nobody offers you any of their stash, even Castiel with his tight lipped clamp on the blunt you roll for him.

The only people at parties who are happy to see you are the potheads, you tell him, your naked skin flustered and sticking to the sheets he's laid out on the floor. He blows smoke rings into the fan next to his head. You sell to kids who can't get laid without being fucked up, you sell to kids who just want to think more clearly. You sell to kids who need you more than they need their parents.

Castiel rubs a hand down your chest. "So are we cool?" His mouth is red and wet, and you kiss him one more time between an inhale and exhale.

"We're cool," you say.

Next: [WILTED FLOWER](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11701.html)


	2. Wilted Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel keeps you on speed dial.

**WILTED FLOWER**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; drug dealing; drug use; prostitution; abuse; underage  
First: [OFF BY HEART](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11327.html)

  
Castiel keeps you on speed dial. "Ever try selling something harder," he says into the receiver when you pick up. He's out of breath, his voice low and hoarse. You can just picture his fingers creeping down his stomach. 

"No," you tell him. You're helping Sam into his jacket, fitting gloves over his tiny hands, your cell phone pinned to your cheek by your shoulder. You don't have time for this.

"Not even Tina?" he says, his breathing labored, his voice tinged with pleasure. This isn't even the first time he's done this.

"No," you say, wrapping a scarf around Sam's neck and grabbing your keys from the kitchen table. Your father has been passed out on the sofa since two in the morning, his snoring loud and obtrusive, his clothes shedding oil and cigarette ash on the fabric. You pack Sam's lunch into his backpack, zippering it closed before gathering up your book full of baggies and heading for the door.

Castiel's almost done, his moans in your ear. "Not even X?" he says.

"No," you say, hanging up right before he comes.

You help Sam into the Impala and tug a seatbelt over him just as your phone starts vibrating again. It's Castiel. He'll call four more times before giving up and texting you to ask if you could come over. None of your other clients has ever had such a fierce addiction, but you'll go to his house with enough weed to give him something to do. Just like the time before and the time before that.

You drop Sam off at school and make your way to Castiel's, pulling in the driveway and watching as he comes out of the house in only jeans. He pads over to your window and you roll it down before turning off the engine.

"I'm glad you came," he says, hooking an arm around your neck and pushing your mouth towards his. You let him kiss you for a few moments before pulling away.

"I can't give it to you for free this time," you say. "I've got bills to pay."

Castiel shrugs and makes a face like he doesn't care, reaching over the window to place a hand over the bulge in your jeans. "S'cool," he says. He kisses you one more time before turning away and heading back barefoot into the house.

You follow him, winding up the stairs to his room. You've never met his parents, which is just as well, because you've never been one for awkward situations. There are clothes on the steps, books on the hallway floor, dirty plates stacked haphazardly in Castiel's room.

"Did the maid skip out or something," you ask, running a finger along his bookshelf. Yates, Vonnegut, Tennessee Williams.

"My parents are in Brazil for a month." Castiel's already naked on his bed, flicking his lighter open, flicking his lighter closed. You don't ask why his parents are in Brazil, but only because you don't really care.

You undo the button on your jeans, slide your shirt over your head, but instead of going further, you lean your hands on the bed, close to Castiel, licking your lips as you say, "Money, please."

Castiel never lets his gaze leave yours, even as he opens the drawer beside his bed and grabs five hundred dollar bills out of a stack. "Will this be enough?" he says. He arches his eyebrow, he's not smiling.

You train your face not to look surprised. but you can't help it when your mouth drops open. It's not very professional, but you cover your shock by leaning forward to kiss Castiel, slipping the bills out of his hand and sliding them into your pocket.

***

You sit against Castiel's chest and roll a blunt for him, your fingers slick with his saliva. This is how it always is afterwards, him pressing soft kisses on your temple, you hoping the blunt won't last long, so maybe you could sell some more before you have to pick Sam up from school, so maybe the water won't be cut off again like last time. You still have the bruises from your father's grip, yellow on the inside of your wrist where he pressed so hard you actually thought you'd cry out. He only touched you when he was really angry, otherwise he left you and Sam to fend for yourselves.

You hand Castiel the blunt and he lights the tip, breathing in the smoke. "Worth it?" you say, even though you might be pressing your luck, your skin red and raw from Castiel's teeth and nails.

"Definitely," he says, exhaling in perfect circles.

He hands the blunt to you even though he knows you don't smoke, moving his mouth to your neck and sucking on the soft spot there. You close your eyes, but all you can think of is the money sitting silent in your jeans pocket.

"I have to go," you say, even though it's hopeless.

"Second wind," Castiel says, his hands sliding down your chest.

***

The second time you ever thought about leaving, it was with one of your father's friends. He was gruff and hoarse and muscled, battle scars from Vietnam white and livid against his tan skin, even after all these years. He stole and drank and he laughed when you showed him your stash of weed, running a palm through your hair and calling you a little baby entrepreneur, just like he used to be when he was your age.

His hands were rough, but you liked it when he touched you. You liked it when you were close enough to smell the beer and cologne and grease on his skin. Sometimes he let you kiss him, soft, slow, maybe when your father ran out to the liquor store, maybe when he had already passed out on the couch. Sometimes he let you touch him, grip him thick with your fist, his breaths panted against your neck, your mouth.

You never thought this was a bad idea, even when he would tell you to stop, even when he would tell you that he couldn't go back to jail, not after the last time, not after he's finally found a job run by people who turn their heads at criminal records. An honest job, his fingers smooth on your nose, on your cheeks. A straight job, his tongue wet against your chin, your lips.

He never asked you to come with him, but you could tell he wanted it, even when he pushed your wandering hands away. You'd find him in your father's room, slung cold on the bed, and you'd slip him out of his jeans, slick mouth all the way down. He'd give up sometime after the third push, your stubborn mouth and his hands turning tight in your hair, gripping harder and harder each time he moaned.

He never looked at you those mornings, but he'd slip a twenty in your pocket. "For lunch money," he'd say. "Just in case." Just in case your father couldn't get out of bed, just in case you ended up selling something more harmful than weed to make the rent.

He never asked you to come with him, but you've never wanted anything so bad.

***

Sam knows not to talk to strangers. Sam knows not to take candy or get in a van or help look for a lost puppy. You taught him these things, holding him tight with both fists on his straightened elbows, your voice low and serious. You've taught him everything your father forgot to teach you after your mother died, when it was just you and him and Sam and the vast emptiness of the house in Lawrence, your mother's things untouched until the day you moved, your father's hands still and quiet on the steel handled brush, the bottles of perfume.

Your father never cried after the funeral, even when you couldn't stop.

Sam knows how to make breakfast and dinner, how to finish his homework without help, how to put himself to bed, all the things he needs to know in case you can't make it, in case your father has forfeited sobriety for poker games and snorting bumps off the kitchen island. Sam knows how to dial your cell phone in case one of your unhappy clients show up, in case your father's friends are bit too rowdy, in case he ever needs you there. Sam knows how to tie his shoes and comb his hair and brush his teeth, but he likes it when you're there to smile and run your fingers over his head, sweeping the bangs off his forehead, cupping your hand around his neck. He likes it when you can say goodnight, your kiss soft and warm on his temple.

You buy him books and toys and clothes with your weed money. This is after you make sure the bills have been paid, this is after your father raids your jeans for beer money or coke money or whatever else he needs, leaving streaks of oil on your laundry. There's an empty can of salt you keep underneath one of your floorboards, the same dirty and dusty space for your drugs, where you keep your crumpled twenties, your crumpled fifties, that you keep just for Sam. Just for him.

You're just feeding Sam his dinner, twirling spaghetti on his fork just the way he likes it, leaving meat sauce mustaches on your upper lip as Sam laughs and laughs, when your phone starts vibrating in your pocket.

"Hello," you say, slipping Sam the fork and wiping your messy mouth with the back of your hand.

"Is this Dean Winchester?" The boy on the other end is breathless, but it's not Castiel.

"Yeah?" Sam is slurping spaghetti noisily, but you can just make out sounds in the background, a girl giggling, a boy calling someone else a fag.

"I'm having a little get together," he says this like it's a joke. "I was just wondering if you could make it down with some party favors." You don't ask how he got your number because you never ask. You don't really care, anyway.

"Tonight?" Your father won't be here to watch Sam, but you bet if you put him to bed and lock the house up nice and tight, everything will be fine. You won't be long anyway.

"Yeah. Around nine?" He gives you the address and tells you he'll be looking forward, his voice soft against the cascade of laughter in the background.

Sam knows what this means. He finishes his dinner in silence and later you'll kiss his forehead goodnight and he'll turn away from you, burying his face in his pillow.

***

The boy that called you, his name is Adam. His parents own one of the leading real estate agencies in the whole state. The first thing he says to you is, "You sell Brick?" Like maybe it's a casual thing, standing in mommy and daddy's guest house with forty other college students asking about drugs.

"No," you say, gritting your teeth. "Just weed."

"Oh," Adam says, like maybe he's disappointed. "Well, that's cool, I guess. Come in."

You watch as a topless eighteen year old blonde girl runs through the foyer, straight out the door. "That's Aubrey," Adam says. "She got hold of some E."

You want to ask why they need the weed then, but you're too afraid of losing the sale. Adam leads you up the stairs to one of the back bedrooms, telling you to sit down on the bed. You pull out a baggie and some rolling paper and start at it, Adam's eyes watching your fingers work.

"I heard you give out other things, too," he says.

Oh. You look up a him, his Hollister polo shirt and Abercrombie jeans, and you want to say no, you want to say that he's heard rumors, he's heard lies, but you've always had trouble letting anything but the truth escape your lips. "Sometimes," you say. "If the price is right."

"Name it," he says.

He could top Castiel's five hundred any day, you know that just by looking at his perfect spray tan. You lick the paper slow and smooth like maybe this is all just a show, like this is all just some stupid game you could actually win. Adam leans so close you can see the green of his eyes, bright against the shadows of the room.

"I'll give you anything," he says.

His mouth so close to yours you can feel his breath warm on your lips. "Anything you want," he says.

The blunt sits heavy between your fingers, heavy until Adam plucks it and lights the tip, inhaling for a few moments and then pressing his lips to yours. He lets his tongue pry your mouth open, passing the smoke into your lungs. You want to choke, but he presses himself into the kiss, his fist pulling at your shirt, his taste like beer and licorice.

When he pulls away, you can't breathe. His lis are red and wet and he sucks another obscene hit, but you can't feel your cheeks or your lips, even though you know it's not the drugs, you know it's not the smoke coating your throat.

Adam says, "I heard you gave great head." His eyebrow arched like maybe he couldn't believe that, like maybe you're not even worth it.

"I told you," you say, coughing before your voice even has a chance to return to normal. "For a price." And you nod to the wallet that's sitting on the nightstand.

Adam laughs and reaches for it, his back one long curving line, licking his fingers and pulling out some bills, handing them to you. "For you and the weed," he says, like maybe you'd forget why you were here in the first place.

You don't need to count it to know that it's more money than you'll make in a week of selling to high school kids and horny lawyers. It's more money than your father puts up his nose a day. You don't want to smile, so you kiss him instead, your teeth sharp against his skin, your mouth hungry. His hands wrap around you and don't let go until you feel a blossom of dull pain, throbbing for your attention. You already know what you're going to get Sam, you already know what kinds of food you don't have to pass up at the grocery store this time. Adam's skin on yours, he pulls off his shirt and bites down hard on the crook of your neck, his nails digging into your ribs.

You're just unzipping his pants when you hear the door creak open. You must be a mess when you turn, your skin red and slick with saliva, but you turn anyway, even as Adam moans for whoever it is to get the fuck out.

"Sorry," Castiel says, his blue eyes looking straight into yours.

***

The first time you ever thought about leaving, you were watching Sam in the playground, laughing and laughing as he pumped his legs on the swing, as he gripped the monkey bars tight. You've always known that he should have had a normal life, one with a mother who kisses him and cleans up his messes and sews up the holes in the knees of his pants. One with a father who actually pays attention, a brother who doesn't fuck everything up. Sam should have everything he asks for.

Once upon a time, you could have let Sam have a home like that. This was after your mother died, before you started selling. This was before your father's drugs, but after he started hitting things, smashing bottles on the kitchen floor, breaking glass picture frames. This was before your father packed up everything your mother ever owned and set fire to it in the front yard. Before he cried over her for the first time, huddled on the kitchen floor and asking God questions he'll never get the answers to. You could have given Sam up to a family who has never been like yours, whi has never seen the things you have seen, done the things you have done.

Once upon a time, you could have left your family behind and become something normal or safe. But you didn't, you couldn't, Sam's little hand slipping into yours, Sam's smile like Mom's smile, soft and beautiful.

You've never been selfless.

***

"I thought," Castiel says, but you have to stop him there. He's leaning against the door like maybe he thinks Adam will be coming back and Castiel's the only defense. You're on the bed, holding your shirt to your chest, exposed.

"It's business," you say. "Sorry, but it's business. It's what I do, I figured you knew that." You also figured Castiel wasn't the type to make a big deal where there wasn't one. You were wrong.

"But, we had," he stops and takes a step closer, his hand out like maybe he might touch you, your skin raw from Adam's mouth. "What we did..."

"Look," you say. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of broke all the time. I need this, I don't do it because it's fun."

Castiel sucks in a gulp of air between his teeth like you've just smacked him in the face. "If," he starts, his hand dropping to his side. "If you need money, I can give it to you. I can take care of you. You don't have to do this with other guys. It can just be me."

Oh, so that's what this is about. You stand up and make an angry move towards him. "I've been with some jealous guys before, you know, and it's not worth it." You pull your shirt on over your head and grab the half empty baggie left on the bed. Adam took the money with him when he left, pushing past Castiel with a roll of his eyes. Looks like it'll be microwave dinners for the next month.

Castiel grabs your arm before you can leave, twisting it away from you. If you had to, you could always make a run for the car where you keep your guns, loaded in the glove compartment and ready for just this. "Let go of me," you say, your voice low.

"Please," he says, even as the tightening of his grip betrays his words. "Just think about it."

You want to say no, but to be honest, you don't have a lot of options right now.

***

The next morning, your father stumbles into your room with whiskey on his breath, his fist curled around your sheets. He's shoving the salt can in your face, his fingers thick and warm, and he looks like maybe this has been the last fuck up, like maybe this is it. "Hiding things from me, boy?" he says, and you want to close your eyes, but you're afraid of what he'll do.

"Yes, sir," you grit out. It's your money, you want to say. Your money that pays for this house, this life, that will let Sam escape one day, just like you never could.

Your father's fist is close to your face, but he doesn't hit you. He's never hit you, even when you could see the want in his eyes, the strain of his muscles, the sharp angle of his jaw. "You'll be giving this to me from now on," he says, his fingers around the can, his cologne tickling your nose.

"Yes, sir," you manage, your chest tightening until maybe you can't feel your heartbeat anymore, until maybe your mouth aches from the grinding of your teeth.

You want to tell him to fuck off and never come back, leave you and Sam and this stupid excuse for a family, but your tongue is heavy in your throat, your lips won't move. You want to tell him exactly what you do to get that money, but you know the words won't even make it past your teeth.

"Good boy," he says, his hand sweeping through your hair.

You turn away and press your face into the pillows, if only so he won't see your tears.

***

Castiel answers the door with barefeet. He looks dark and cold and he has bruises underneath his eyes, like maybe he's been taking more than just weed, like maybe he's been up all night. He looks surprised to see you, but not exactly happy.

You curl a hand around the back of Sam's neck, holding him close. He had asked you in the car where you were going, but you couldn't give him an answer until you turned down Castiel's street. It's the only place you could go.

"Hey," you say, shivering against the wind. "Can we come in?"

Castiel moves aside, but doesn't say anything, not even when you take off Sam's coat and tell him to not wander too far, sending him down the hall and towards the kitchen. Castiel doesn't make a move towards you, so you close the gap, your mouth soft against his, warm. He wants to kiss you back, but he's not letting himself.

"If this was a bad idea," you say, pulling back.

"No," he says, sharp. "No, I'm just tired."

"Okay." Your fingers wind themselves in his hair, in his shirt. "Okay."

You needed to get out of your house, you tell him later, his hands on you. You and Sam, you had to get out of the house before your father started putting you in more debt, stealing your weed money and buying more drugs with it. Buying alcohol and letting his friends sleep over. You're not putting Sam through that, he's already seen more than enough.

Castiel was the only one who's ever offered you this chance, you tell him. Castiel was the only one who could live with all this, you and Sam and your stupid drugs. Your father's habit. Your skin with the ghostly touch of all those other boys, all those other men. Castiel's the only one who's never gotten tired of you.

You catch Castiel's gaze as he watches you watch Sam and you smile, his fingers curling around yours.

Next: [WHITE AS DIAMONDS](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11834.html)


	3. White as Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you dream of your mother, you dream of fire.

**WHITE AS DIAMONDS**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; drug dealing; drug use; prostitution; abuse  
First: [OFF BY HEART](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11327.html)  
Second: [WILTED FLOWER](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11701.html)

  
When you dream of your mother, you dream of fire. The day Sam was born, your mother sat pale in the hospital room and whispered reassurances in your ear as she stroked Sam’s pink skin. She will never forgot you. She will never love him more than you. You are wanted. You are her son. You belong to her and she will never leave you. 

Sam would wail and she would clutch him to her breast and run fingers through your hair. Your father was so happy, he cried, his arms around you, his stubble scratching your skin as you clung to him. Your mother was weak, but perfect, radiating golden beauty underneath the hospital sheets.

Your mother told you that she had named Sam after her father, a strong man whom you had never met but pictured to be like your own father, tall and dark haired with rough, calloused hands. She would whisper this to Sam when she thought you were asleep, tell him all the things he would grow up to be, all the things he would do when he was big and strong like his father, like her father before her. She would tell him that she would never leave him, either. That the angels were watching out for all of them.

Your mother died six months after Sam was born. There was a fire in the night. You were lucky to be alive. The police said there must have been an electrical problem, and they bundled you and your father in wool blankets while you watched your house burn to the ground. You imagined your mother in her white cotton nightgown, her golden hair aflame, her mouth opened in a silent scream. The firemen came back with ash on their clothes and smoke in their lungs and said that her body was found curled in Sam’s room, like maybe she was just trying to reach out for her son one last time before the fire caught her.

You don’t know why you’re alive and she isn’t. You don’t know why your father found you and Sam and not her. You don’t know why you three were so much more important.

Your father always told you that God wanted her up in Heaven where she belonged, where she could be surrounded by her mother and father, by you someday. His eyes were red rimmed, but he never cried. You both knew he was lying.

***

Castiel kisses a cluster of freckles on your shoulder and whispers against your skin. Sam’s in the next room asleep with his thumb in his mouth even though you told him not to do that, even though you told him sucking thumbs was for babies and he’s a big boy now. The door is locked and Castiel is kissing you between puffs on the blunt you rolled for him. You have a stash of drugs that he won’t let you sell and he just wants to get rid of it, so he sits in his room and smokes and fucks you and slips you money if you need it. You always need it, but his stack never dwindles.

You want to ask him where he gets it all, but you’re afraid of overstepping your boundaries. You have Sam to look out for and you have everything to sacrifice.

“My parents will be home in two weeks,” he says, his tongue dancing.

“We can find a place by then,” you say, and he tightens his fist around your arm. You wince, but don’t speak.

“Don’t go.” His mouth is sharp on your neck. “I’ll deal with them.”

You have bruises now, but nobody ever says anything. “They’re just gonna let a drug dealer and his eight year old brother stay in your guest room forever? No questions asked?”

“No questions asked,” Castiel says.

You bite your lip until you can taste the familiar swell of copper in your mouth. “I can’t believe that,” you say. You’re pushing it and you both know it.

His hands on you, they haven’t been soft since you moved in. “Believe it,” he says.

***

You sell even though Castiel tells you not to. You sell to high school kids and to their parents, you sell to college kids and to their professors, you sell to lawyers and doctors and cops. Everybody just wants that piece of you.

You never hear from Adam ever again, but the ex-boyfriend who calls you girl names, well he keeps leaving you messages asking you where you’ve been. You erase them before Castiel notices, before he can even ask. You start buying from one of your father’s biker friends only because he promises you really good shit. He’s used to selling cocaine or brick, but he’ll sell anything to take back the market from the Jamaicans or Hispanics, he’ll sell anything for a price and isn’t that just familiar.

His hands are oil slicked and he leaves stains on the bags he gives to you, but you don’t mind it. “Don’t tell your father,” he says with a grin. When he smiles, the wrinkles reach his eyes. “Don’t tell him I’m helping you with this shit.” Like your father would win an award for caring or something, anyway. Like he wasn’t pushing shit up his nose faster than you could sell.

Your father’s friend, his hands are puckered and raw and he says, “Just don’t tell anybody you got it from me.”

His fingerprints left in grease, “Just don’t bring me into it.”

You smile and tell him not to worry.

***

It’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but you fuck every guy you sell to. It’s just something to get Castiel off your mind, the bruises that have started to show on the insides of your wrists, on the corner of your mouth. It’s just something to get his touch off of you.

There’s a boy from your high school named Danny who has dark hair and blue eyes and likes to kiss you soft and slow. He slides his hands over your chest and brushes the hair from your face and maybe for awhile you can pretend he’s someone else, maybe for awhile you can pretend you’re somewhere different, but when he whispers your name against your temple, it’s not the voice you want to hear. He has hope in his eyes when you kiss him, but when he’s finished, you slide out of his bed and don’t look back.

***

You’ve never tried drugs, but there’s a first time for everything. Castiel brings you to a club for the night and you’re sweat slick and high and his hands are all over you. Earlier, he had pushed a tiny pill into your mouth with his tongue and you think it may have been E, but you can’t be sure. You didn’t want to say no, anyway.

There’s music in your veins and you can feel it, smooth and warm, and it’s dancing all over your body, spider webbing across your hands and arms, flush against your face. Castiel feels rough, but you like the pressure of his skin on yours. His mouth kissing your neck, his hands dipping below the waistband of your jeans, you’re moving and closing your eyes and you just want this part to last forever. You just want to feel this until you die.

“More,” you say, and your voice is hoarse, low under the bass. “More.” You push back against him, you can’t get any closer.

Castiel slides his hand in yours and leads you to the bathroom, pushing open the heavy door. It’s cool inside, but you don’t want that. You want the heat, you want the pressure. You fall against him and he strokes your hair, his mouth hungry against yours. “More,” you moan, and he pushes you into a stall.

He’s not slow or smooth, but you want it, you want all of this, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know they’ll leave bruises. His teeth biting and biting your skin, his tongue licking away the blood. “Like that,” you tell him, bucking, your hands against the dirty stall door. There are obscenities written in Sharpie and pen, but you close your eyes and keep moving, keep dancing.

“Like that,” you say.

Castiel never makes a sound.

***

Sam never asks about your mother, but he looks just like her, and that’s enough. When he smiles, you can remember a brush of knuckles across the back of your neck. When he laughs, you can remember the smell of her perfume, a soft hint of gardenias in the sun. You can remember her charm bracelet tinkling together like the wind chimes you used to have on your front porch. You can remember the way she sang along to the radio as she washed dishes in the sink, her hands full of soap and porcelain. Her hair the color of gold.

You never tell anyone about her, about the fire. She’s yours and you want to keep her with you until you can’t remember anymore. She belongs to you and you will never ever leave her.

***

Castiel’s parents come home on a Tuesday. You’re just putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine when you hear the door slam, the click clack of heels on the foyer tile. Castiel’s upstairs playing Operation with Sam; you can hear laughter even with the water running. You wanted him with you when you met them for the first time, but Castiel’s mom rounds the corner into the kitchen and you’re there alone.

“Hi,” you say. You’re barefoot and you’ve left your shirt somewhere upstairs.

Castiel’s mom doesn’t look surprised, but she looks young. “Hi,” she says, bright. “Are you a friend of Castiel’s?” She’s wearing an expensive looking business suit with high heels. Her hair curls around her face.

“Yeah,” you say, but only because you wouldn’t exactly call him a boyfriend.

“Well, I would say food is in the fridge, but it looks like you’ve made yourself at home.” Her words aren’t spiteful, but they feel like it. She arches an eyebrow, but her cell phone starts to ring and she picks it up before it can finish, rolling her eyes and barking out instructions without even a greeting.

She walks off into the sunroom just as Castiel’s dad comes in. He doesn’t even look at you, just marches into what you assume is an office, slamming the door behind him. You stand there gazed for a minute, before walking back upstairs.

“Your parents are here,” you tell Castiel when you walk into the room. He’s trying to lift out a wishbone with the plastic tweezers, but it hits the side and buzzes when you speak. Sam yells that he’s won, triumphant, and does a victory race through the door, brushing past you as he leaves.

“Thanks,” Castiel says, leaning back against the pillows. He un-tucks a blunt from his ear and lights it.

“You don’t even,” you start, but he rolls his eyes.

“No, I don’t care,” he says, exhaling smoke above his head. “They don’t care. As long as I keep my mouth shut and stay out of their lives, I can do whatever the hell I want.”

He stands up and you close your eyes, ready for his touch. He traces your jaw, your lips, his fingers are dry. “I thought my family was fucked up,” you say.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says, and brings your mouth to his.

***

Your father leaves messages on your cell phone. You’re not sure what they say because you erase them without listening. You can imagine he’d ask you to come back or to give him the money that you owe him. You can imagine he’d ask you to do a lot of things you don’t want to, you never will. He wouldn’t beg or plead, but he’d be holding the phone with white knuckles, he’d be gritting his teeth.

If you were there, you wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.

If you were there, you’d be afraid he’d hit you for leaving.

Next: [SKIN OF THE NIGHT](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/13785.html)


	4. Skin of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day you turn eighteen, your father picks a fight in the wrong bar and ends up bleeding out on the floor, his fingers grasping at broken pieces of glass.

**SKIN OF THE NIGHT**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; drug dealing; drug use; prostitution; abuse; character death  
First: [OFF BY HEART](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11327.html)  
Second: [WILTED FLOWER](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11701.html)  
Third: [WHITE AS DIAMONDS](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/11834.html)

  
The day you turn eighteen, your father picks a fight in the wrong bar and ends up bleeding out on the floor, his fingers grasping at broken pieces of glass. You’re not sure what to say when you get the call, but you hold Sammy tight enough to you that you can’t breathe, your fists in his jacket, his tears on your neck. Sammy cries himself to sleep. You can’t stop touching Castiel. 

He never loved you as much as you loved him, you tell Castiel, your mouth fitting against the slope of his jaw. His nails are digging into your back, drawing blood.

He never told you that he loved you or Sam after your mother died, you say. He never cared, your teeth biting the rise of Castiel’s collarbone. Castiel swallowing pill after pill, his fingers against your mouth, trying to get you to take at least one.

“Open up,” he says. His eyes are bloodshot, he hasn’t slept in days.

“Here comes the airplane,” he says.

He never let you remember her, you say, kissing Castiel’s mouth again and again and again, harder and faster, then soft and slow. He never let you hold on to her the way you always wanted to, you say. Castiel has a pocket full of pills, a mirror full of cocaine, you’re not exactly sure why he needs the weed anymore.

“Be a good boy,” he says, pills between his fingers, trying to slide them into your palm. “Take your medicine,” he says.

He never wanted you around after your mother died, you say. You’re rocking hard against Castiel, his naked skin feels soft on yours. He never wanted to take care of you or Sam without her, you say. Castiel is unbuttoning your jeans with drugs between his lips, careful not to swallow yet, careful not to take what’s yours.

“Time to feel good, baby,” he says, wrapping his palm thick around you.

He never touched you the way you wanted him to, you say. Castiel slips his tongue into your mouth and you can taste the bitter burst of pharmaceuticals. You’re not exactly sure who you’re talking about now.

“Time to forget,” Castiel says, and the world grows dark and small with pleasure.

***

You get custody of Sammy, but only because it’s legal and there’s no room left in any group home, there’s nobody in the foster care system who wants to do the paperwork. You get the house, but only because it’s paid off after the life insurance check goes through. Your father was always so thoughtful, you tell Castiel, your eyes red rimmed, but not from crying. He clucks his tongue like he knows what you mean, his face pale, his eyes bright.

The day you move back in, Castiel comes with, bringing over his clothes, his books and CDs. You don’t ask if he’s told his parents, he doesn’t tell you how long he’s staying. Either way, you’re not sure if you care that much. Either way, he’s there as if he’s always belonged.

Sammy missed his old room, but you stand small in yours, running your hand over the bedpost, the empty salt can on your desk. There’s nothing here that you couldn’t live without, nothing here that you missed when you were at Castiel’s.

A woman comes by your father’s house a few times to check on Sammy, to see if he’s alright here with you, with the ghost of your father around every corner. She’s short and round and her glasses cover most of her face. She brings stacks of papers and holds them to her chest like a shield.

You’ve taken care of Sammy since your mother died, you tell her. She writes messages in cursive on her folders, she scans the rooms of the house, critical, impassive. Your father was nothing but a paycheck, really, you tell her. She’s probably heard all this before.

You don’t tell her about the drugs, but she doesn’t seem to care, anyway.

“He needs to go to school,” she says, making her way around the banister upstairs, stepping around Castiel’s shirt on the floor. Sammy makes a face behind her back, and you try not to laugh. “He needs to get an education.”

Unlike you, she doesn’t say.

“Sure,” you tell her, picking up the broken toys scattered around the hope chest and slipping them into your pockets. “School every week.”

“He needs three meals a day,” she says, sliding a finger over the bathroom sink, inspecting it for dirt. “I can get you paperwork for food stamps.”

“Oh,” you say. Castiel rolls his eyes.

You say, “No, thanks, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“You’ll have to get a job,” she says, picking up a corner of Sammy’s comforter with her pen, peering underneath. “You’ll need a stable income to pay for his necessities.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” you say. Castiel is behind you, snickering.

She looks at you through her glasses. “There must be something open at the local grocery store or pizza place.” She arches an eyebrow. “Something,” she says.

“Yeah,” you say. “Right.” Your hands are curling into the shape of fists.

“Well, good luck then,” she says. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

***

The first time you ever have to tell somebody you’re an orphan, well, you just can’t stop laughing.

The second time, you almost don’t even make it to the bathroom before you vomit.

***

When you dream, you don’t dream of your father. Castiel will hold you until you stop shaking, but you can’t tell him through your chattering teeth that it wasn’t your father, it wasn’t your mother. There’s no shadowed demon standing over your bed at night, taking away the things you love, even when you want to think so, to scream and shout and wrap your fists around whatever you don’t believe anymore, even when you’d rather there was, just so somebody could fucking pay for this. Castiel sliding his hands up and down your sweat-slicked skin, you can’t tell him you were dreaming about fire or blood or the press of bruises that have collected around your wrists and hips, even if you wanted to. Even if it would be easier.

When you dream, you dream of blood. It’s not your own, but it might as well be, your thumb smearing red on his dream mouth, on his dream cheek. He calls out your name when he chokes, when he coughs, your fingers in his hair, smoothing it down feather soft. He cries, and you feel the swell of ache in your chest moving up your throat, bubbling out of your mouth in careful sobs. He won’t blame you, but that’s only because he never has. His tiny hands fisted in your shirt, he’ll never believe you did anything wrong, he’ll never believe you did anything other than your best.

When you dream, you don’t dream about your parents, dead, but not forgotten, their faces smooth on the backs of your eyelids.

When you dream, you dream of Sam.

***

Castiel has a friend who has a friend that can hook you up with something stronger, something more lucrative. Castiel kisses you soft and slow until you relent. You both know that you’d never make it playing straight, you both know that you could never have another job, no matter what Child Protective Services seems to think. At least if you do this, Castiel tells you, his mouth tickling its way up your neck, at least if you get into something harder, well, maybe Sammy could go to college.

Maybe Sammy could have everything he wants.

You’re not sure when he started caring more for your brother, but you know that he’s right.

Castiel’s friend of a friend is tall and dark-skinned. His name is Marcus and he wears dark clothes and dark sunglasses and blows curls of smoke through his lips from a rolled blunt in his hand. Castiel had told you that he’s part of some gang, but he never told you which one. There are tattoos running down the length of his arms, and tattoos circling around his face, and when he meets you at the door, there’s a gun in his hand.

“Dean,” the friend of a friend says, and you nod. He makes a motion for you to come in, and you squeeze by him through the doorway, the gun sliding cold on your skin. He looks to make sure nobody’s following you, then tilts his head at the guys waiting inside.

They press you up against the wall and you inhale sharply, heartbeat throbbing fast in your throat. One guy slides his hands over your clothes and you want to say, “Hey, not for free,” but your mouth won’t move to let it out. They’re just checking for weapons anyway, just like Castiel had told you they would. You didn’t ask him where he had met these guys, you didn’t ask him how he knew them, why he knew them, but maybe you should have.

Marcus steps close to you once they’re done. “Come on to the back,” he says. The friend of a friend is only the doorman, Castiel had told you, brushing kisses along the back of your neck. The friend of a friend isn’t the guy in charge.

The man in back is tall and muscled and has just as many tattoos as the rest of the guys. He looks at you through the haze of cigar smoke and his eyes are bright, bright blue. He has a jagged scar on his face, raised and livid white and piercing the length of his cheek. He has a gun on the table in front of him, pointing right at you.

“This is Dean Winchester, the guy I was telling you about,” Marcus says, and pushes you closer to the other man.

The man nods his head and takes a strong pull on his cigar. “I heard you were looking to get into more serious business.” His voice is deep, but not whiskey-laden like your father’s used to be. Not gravelly like your father’s used to be.

You shrug, but don‘t break eye contact. “I figured it was a good time to start.”

The man laughs, throaty and amused, and smiles up at you from where he’s sitting. “You’re funny, kid.” He makes a motion to one of the guys behind you and Marcus places a cellophane wrapped brick on the table. You look at it like you’ve never seen one before. You look at it like you don’t know what to do with it.

“Want something else?” the man says, his fingers close enough to the gun they’re almost touching. “Something a little softer?” His voice is amused, but his eyes are hard.

“No,” you say. And then you grit your teeth, trying so hard to staunch the rising taste of bile in your mouth. “No, this is good.”

The man tells you to try it out for a week or however long it takes you to package it and sell it and when he stands up to give it to you, he slides a warm hand into yours and pulls you close, his grip tight and then tighter, his mouth against your ear. “This is a loan, kid,” he says, his voice low and hard. “That means I expect money back from this.” His hand squeezing yours, ready to break it.

“Yes,“ you say.

“Of course,” you say. Of course.

And then he’s sliding back with a smile. “Good luck.”

When they let you out of the warehouse, when you’ve driven at least a mile away, you pull over to the side of the road and you breathe through your mouth until your heartbeat is normal again, until your fingers have stopped shaking. This is never how you wanted things to turn out. He brick tucked safely into the spare tire in back, this is never how you wanted your life or Sam’s life to go.

Castiel had said, “Do this for Sam,” his mouth moving down and down and down, his teeth light and teasing against your skin.

Castiel had said, “Do this for me.”

***

The day your father dies in a bar fight, cold and broken and bleeding out on the dirty, foreign floor, the day you turn eighteen, the police officer who calls your cell phone, the police officer who tells you, he asks you to come down to the morgue to identify your father‘s body. Castiel is staring up at you from bed, bleary-eyed and high, and you’re sitting up against the backboard and you’re high and your voice is strangely even.

Sammy is asleep in his room. Castiel’s parents are on another trip for work, somewhere in Europe maybe, and you’re still living in his room, his sweat-slick skin pressed to yours. This isn’t working out, but you have nowhere else to go. This isn’t working out, but you only have him.

Castiel says, “What is it?” And his voice is obscenely loud and you’re paranoid that they can hear him over the phone, can hear his slurred words, can hear that he’s high.

“Shh,” you say, your hand over the receiver, and the officer on the other end is asking your for your name and for your address and for your date of birth. The officer on the other end is telling you how this will work, identifying your father’s rotting corpse, putting a name to his broken face.

You agree to meet the next day, your voice still even, but soft, your hands shaking so hard Castiel has to hold them tight to get them to stop. You agree to meet, to see your father’s body, and then you hang up, clicking the phone closed and placing it on the nightstand.

Castiel says, “What is it, baby?” His mouth on your shoulder, his pressed lips leaving one, two, three kisses.

Castiel says, “What’s wrong?”

And you say, “My father’s dead.”

And then you smile.


End file.
